Rain
by j-orbanski
Summary: <html><head></head>It rains a lot in London. John's used to being soaked through to the bone while on cases. But he's not used to getting sick from the rain.  S/J pre-slash</html>


**066.) Rain**

**Author:** j-orbanski  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> Sherlock BBC  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Sherlock / John  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1,291  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Only borrowing the characters, not for profit, etc.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> It rains a lot in London. John's used to being soaked through to the bone while on cases. But he's not used to getting sick from the rain.

* * *

><p>It rains a lot in London. John has known this since he was a little boy. It always seemed to rain whenever his mum would plan to take Harry and him to the park.<p>

He would never realise how much it rained in London until he had to chase Sherlock around during cases. It wasn't unusual for him to have water up to his mid-calf, mud splattered all over his clothes, his entire body shivering, no matter what the temperature.

It shouldn't have surprised John that he woke up the next morning, sweating with chills, coughing and sneezing, his entire body aching. He should have taken two paracetamol and went back to sleep, but the case was still on, and Sherlock needed him to be there.

So he wrestled himself out of bed, put on his warmest jumper, woolly socks (despite it being spring), a pair of flannels underneath his jeans, and a jacket. He stuffed his jacket pockets full of tissues – he knew he'd need them.

He wasn't two steps downstairs when Sherlock yelled at him to get back into bed.

"You're sick. Your fever hasn't broken yet, and if you go out in today's rain, you'll be sure to get pneumonia. I'll have the case solved by tea time, I don't need you today. I alerted Mrs. Hudson to your illness, and while she insists she's only our landlady, she'll bring you chicken soup sometime in the early afternoon," said Sherlock. "Oh, and I'll pick up some of that Lady Grey tea you like on the way home."

John just stood on the stairs, completely in shock. Did Sherlock just say he didn't need him?

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, "Come on, back into bed."

He climbed the stairs to where he was and led him back to his room.

John stripped down to his pyjamas and crawled back into bed. Sherlock tucked him into bed, making sure all of his covers kept him warm. Before he left, he placed his cold hand on John's forehead, sending a chill down his spine.

"It'll break soon, get some rest."

Sherlock left his room, his brain buzzing with details of the case.

"Who was that and what have they done with Sherlock Holmes?" John asked the empty room, surprised by Sherlock's peculiar, caring behavior.

Mrs. Hudson woke him at a little after 1 o'clock, a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup on a tray with a glass of orange juice, another dose of paracetamol, and a cherry ice lolly.

"Heard you weren't feeling well, dearie. Brought you some lunch, you're a doctor, you know you have to keep replenishing your fluids," she said, placing the tray on his bedside table.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, I really appreciate it."

"Oh, it's no trouble dearie. I'll pop back around tea time, if Sherlock isn't back yet, with something else for you. Feel better!"

She left him alone once again. He took the pills first, before having a bit of the ice lolly, not wanting it to melt. The cherry-flavored ice soothed his scratchy throat. As he licked the ice lolly, he picked up his laptop, which was sitting next to his bed. He might as well get some blogging done since he had nothing else to do.

He bit down, the icy cold stinging his teeth for a moment as he chewed, the cold sliding down his throat easily. He couldn't keep up with the melting ice lolly though, a sticky blob falling onto his keyboard.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, quickly licking his keyboard without thinking twice.

"I can't imagine how many bacteria you just ingested," said a voice from outside his door.

John continued to slurp the cherry ice as Sherlock walked back into his room.

"Thought you wouldn't be back until later?" John asked.

"Finished the case early, left Lestrade to chase after the murderer. He'll probably end up allowing him to escape, but we can deal with that tomorrow. I can't leave my sick blogger alone all day."

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" John asked once again.

Sherlock laughed, "So I'm not supposed to care about my friend being sick? Do you really think I'm that cold and heartless?"

"Well it does come as a surprise to see you caring all of a sudden."

"I've always cared, it's just hard for me to show it. The last time I tried to care about people, they called me a freak. You've met Seb – you heard how they treated me at uni. I know you're not like those pricks – you don't think I'm a freak."

John placed the half-eaten ice lolly into an empty mug on his bedside table before beckoning Sherlock to sit next to him on the bed.

He coughed, "Of course you're not a freak – you're brilliant, Sherlock."

He ruffled Sherlock's ebony curls before he pulled him into an embrace, "I don't get why they would be so cruel to someone as brilliant as you. They just don't see what I see in you. They're the idiots."

Sherlock smiled before he pressed his hand to John's forehead, "Your fever's broken. Come on, time for some soup."

John ate half of the bowl while Sherlock scurried downstairs to make John a mug of tea exactly how he liked it.

When Sherlock returned, he sat on the edge of John's bed again as he finished the bowl of soup.

"Don't get so close. I don't want to get you sick."

"I don't get sick. My immune system couldn't be compromised by a simple cold as yours anyway. I can get as close to you as I want," explained Sherlock, nudging closer to John.

John scooted over to make room for Sherlock, who handed him a warm mug of tea.

"Tell me how you finished the case so quickly."

By the time Sherlock got to the part of the story of how he let Lestrade chase after this week's serial killer, John was snoring on his shoulder. Sherlock smiled. He grabbed John's laptop off of his lap and placed it on his own – typing in John's obvious password: RaspberryToast11.

As John slept, Sherlock updated The Science of Deduction, did some online shopping for a separate freezer for the commandeered body parts from Bart's, and solved a few email cases. The longer John slept, the more he shifted into Sherlock's body – his arm wrapping around his waist, his body turned toward his.

Sherlock gave up on finishing everything else – although determined to thoroughly clean John's laptop the first opportunity he got – and put the laptop back on the floor next to the bed. He scooted their bodies down the bed as carefully as he could without waking John. John's body curled into his as soon as their heads hit the pillows, soft snores permeating the room.

When John woke next, it was dark outside his window, the only light in the room from the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock. He was warm, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him. The thing that surprised him the most was not Sherlock holding him – it was that Sherlock was sleeping, his breathing shallow, eyes closed, his heartbeat slow and even.

'Sherlock Holmes actually sleeping? Who was this and what had they done with Sherlock?' thought John as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

John felt better. He wasn't achy, his throat no longer scratchy, his fever gone. At least the rain hadn't had any lasting effects.

Or did it?

As he looked at the sleeping detective he was wrapped in, he smiled – Sherlock surprised him every day. It could be eyeballs in the microwave or Sherlock helping him back to health, but life was never boring at 221B.


End file.
